A Christmas Gift
by edleweiss
Summary: Chauvelin catches the Scarlet Pimpernel off guard. Has Christmas come early for the agent of the republic?


As his horse left the shadows of the woods to trace along the city walls towards Le Havre, Sir Percy Blakeney finally began to feel cold. For the first several miles, he had been comfortably protected from the air, covered from head to toe with only his eyes showing between his hat and muffler. But now, the bite of the brisk December wind at that exposed swatch of flesh was enough to rack his entire body with a shiver. Grimacing, he hunched his broad shoulders and bowed his head so that the brim of his hat would shield his face from the winter air.

He shuddered again when he considered that he should have been riding north to Calais. But then Sir Andrew had anticipated the miserable weather and it had been decided that he would have a better chance to reach the more westerly port and then let the _DayDream_ correct his course. With any luck he would reach Richmond by tomorrow evening and be waiting when his wife and brother-in-law returned from their midnight mass. He imagined their reactions and the thoughts of his wife's delighted surprise at finding him there in the dining room with le revellirie feast warmed him more thoroughly than his heavy great coat ever could.

But the nostalgic smile pressed against the knit of the scarf twined around his face faded when he recognized the only other rider on the road. The light of the full moon illuminated the stripes of red, blue, and white on the sash that the man wore over his layers of clothing and Sir Percy instantly knew that it was Chauvelin. He did not know how long they had been riding like this, side by side, separated only by the width of the road. He could only presume by other horse's spirited step that he had been overtaken while he fantasized about home. Seeing that it could easily outrun his own tired mount, he hoped that the Frenchman, also absorbed in his thoughts, would not recognize him.

But Citizen Chauvelin had recognized Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart. He had been following the Englishman since leaving one of Paris's eastern gates. Chauvelin had immediately noticed the broad shoulders and tall frame hunched against the bitter cold. For some reason, his adversary had not attempted to disguise himself that night and as the distance between the two riders shortened, the fine quality of the great coat, cut in the English style with many capes, had betrayed the baronet. After all, who else besides the Scarlet Pimpernel could ride a worn out nag and yet afford such a fine coat?

Watching his enemy out of the corner of his eye, the agent of the committee of public safety had slowed his own pace to ponder what to do. Here was his opportunity to surprise that accursed Pimpernel perhaps finally capture him. It was his duty to his country to end that Englishman's interference with justice, yet to do so would interfere with another obligation. Citizen Chauvelin had promised his daughter that he would be home for Christmas. He had hoped that if he rode hard that he might reach the little house nestled in the Alps by morning on the twenty-fifth. His chances at success were slim. They depended on the weather, his ability to find fresh mounts, and his own endurance.

While Chauvelin knew that it was likely that snow or his own exhaustion would strand him in Lyons or perhaps Orange, preventing him from reaching home until a day or two after Christmas, he also realized that if he were to arrest Blakeney on that night, that it would be at least a week until the spy was executed and the paperwork was finished, releasing him to return home. By then it would be too late and the festivities would be dampened by Fleurette's disappointment that her Bibi had missed Christmas.

As the pair approached the road that led south from Paris to Lyons, the revolutionary was still undecided. His eyes flicked from that point were their paths would diverge back to Blakeney, unsure which of his duties took precedence. He had dreamed for years of ridding France of that menace. But his smoldering hatred for the Pimpernel was tempered when he thought of his daughter's fallen face, should her father not be present to receive her kiss on Christmas morning. In the depths of his heart, buried somewhere beneath the grudge he bore against Blakeney, Chauvelin knew that he was not the only one with loved ones anticipating his return.

Daring to face the wind, he looked up again and could now make out the sign pointing the way south and just beyond it, the glow of a tiny guardhouse window near one of the city gates. Gently he urged his horse closer to Blakeney's until they were riding almost shoulder to shoulder. Still not daring to more than glance at the other man from the corner of his eye, Chauvelin thought that he observed uneasiness in his foe's stiff posture. Suppressing a grin, he prepared to turn south.

"Merry Christmas, Blakeney." He said flatly, turning his head in time to see the surprised blue eyes emerge from the shadows of the hat.

There was a moment of shocked silence as Sir Percy realized that his body was not about to be pierced by sword or musket shot nor was it to be pulled from his horse by rough hands. Then he responded, "Joyeux Noel, Citoyen," and disappeared from Chauvelin's scope of peripheral vision.

Sir Percy was paranoid the rest of the journey to Le Havre. Certain that at any moment Republican guards would come thundering down the road from Paris, he glanced behind him every time heard his mount's footsteps or the thump of his own heart. It was not until he passed through the gates of Blakeney Manor that he finally stopped watching over his shoulder. Years later, when Blakeney finally related the tale to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst for the first time, he would chuckle at his foolishness and remark that that night, somewhere far to the south of him, Citizen Chauvelin had been laughing to himself, aware that he had, for once, gotten the better of the Scarlet Pimpernel.


End file.
